THE ULTIMATE ANTI-HERO
Battles between various TV commercial & infomercial spokespeople, spokesanimals, spokethings, and the products themselves.
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ROUND SIXTY ONE: THAT GODDAMN QUEER HAMBURGER HELPER HAND vs. THOSE GODDAMN QUEER KEEBLER'S ELVES
This battle shall take place inside a hollow, rotted-out tree where Keebler's snacks are made. The surprisingly generous space is outfitted with conveyor belts of various sizes and speeds, two rather potent gas-fired ovens, vats of ***HOT*** (~350°F {~176.67°C}) melted candy compounds, a box forming machine, several Class ABC fire extinguishers, and one Class D fire extinguisher (for extinguishing flammable metals like sodium, zirconium, and magnesium).
The contestants do not necessarily have to ***USE*** everything here, but they are at their
disposal if needed -- or if desired.
Those goddamn queer Keebler's Elves get out of the gates first not only because they're on their home soil, but because that goddamn queer, mangy, malformed, 4-fingered, stupid sodding talking Hamburger Helper Hand doesn't have a fucking clue as to what's going on here because this isn't a residential kitchen or a shopping mall.
The elves skitter down the inner wall of the tree trunk and over to one of the very fucking hot vats of molten candy, grab ladles of the very fucking hot sticky shit, and try to dump it on the Hand. But Hand, being used to hot things around him, surprisingly easily dodges those death ladles, and hides underneath a conveyor belt to think up something that might level the playing field a little.
The Hand spots a box of plastic drinking straws, an Erlenmeyer flask of powdered zirconium metal, & a Bic® brand disposable "siggeret" lighter; and since it knows that powdered zirconium metal is quite flammable, decides that its best course of action is to fill the straw with the silvery-white powder, put one end in its little cocksucking mouth (the hand is a faggot ya know!), and take aim...very soon, those goddamn queer Keebler's elves are lined up neatly in the Hand's sights. The Hand exhales sharply whilst flicking his Bic® at the exposed end of the straw. A huge tongue of white hot fire issues forth, but DAMN!!! HE MISSED!!!
The elves scatter like cockroaches in the bathtub when you flip the light on at 3:00 am, and within a second or two, they've all vanished.
The elves return a short time later, see the flask of metal, straws, and lighter -- and decide to fight fire with fire! They all grab straws, load them up with the powdered metal, and wait...they wait...and wait...and wait some mo...LOOK OUT HERE IT COMES!!! The elves all aim their straws at the Hand, light a paper towel that was lying on the floor, and then exhale sharply in unison whilst holding the burning towel near the end of their straws. A huge fireball is generated and whizzes through the air! GOT THE HAND!!! The Hand screams in that faggoty voice, "HAMBURGER HELPER, MAKES A GREAT -- OOOOOO
FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!"
The Hand is quickly consumed by the exceptionally hot fireball from the burning zirconium powder, and is almost instantly converted into fish food!!!
THE WINNER ROUND SIXTY ONE: THOSE GODDAMN QUEER KEEBLER'S ELVES!!!
ROUND SIXTY TWO: THAT GODDAMN QUEER HAMBURGER HELPER HAND vs. THOSE GODDAMN STRAIGHT CHARMIN® SHITTING BEARS
This battle shall take place in the bathroom of a middle class household. The bathroom is equipped with the usual: a mirrored medicine cabinet stocked with common medications & remedies, a vanity with sink, a hair dryer, a standard toliet with cistern and ordinary flush mechanism, a roll of Charmin® with Butt Pillows mounted to the right of the toliet, a plunger, a broom & dustpan, and a bathtub. Near the bathroom is the kitchen, stocked with the usual food & kitchenware. The contestants do not necessarily have to *USE* everything listed here, but they *ARE* at their disposal.
Those goddamn straight Charmin® Shitting Bears are on their home turf, so they burst out of the gates first...well, actually, they sort of meekly crawl from the cabinet below the lavatory, mysteriously grow to over 7 feet tall, and then start harping about how the stupid dumb bungwipe keeps your stupid dumb bunghole cleaner. That goddamn queer, mangy, malformed, 4-fingered, stupid sodding talking Hamburger Helper Hand is generally unphased
by the aural assault (it's a hand for Christ sakes, and hands don't have ears!).
That goddamn queer Hamburger Helper Hand goes on the offense now...it starts unrolling the Charmin® with Butt Pillows into the shitbowl, trying to trick those stupid sodding Charmin® Shitting Bears into thinking that Docta Clogga has made an unwelcome visit to that bathroom!!! 
The Hand fails miserably, as those tupid sodding straight Charmin® Shitting Bears simply tear the Charmin® off
at the roll, scoop the soggy pile out of the toliet bowl, and throw the soggy TP into a nearby wastepaperbas...O WAIT!!! THEY CHANGED THEIR MINDS!!! The red bear (the one with the soggy mass of Charmin® in his paws) suddenly turns and hucks the big gigantic toliet wad at the Hand, nocking him across the bathroom floor and into that little cabinet under the lavatory.
Not to be outdone by a fucking cartoon bear, the Hand spies a bottle of Lysol® toilet bowl cleaner, removes the top, and squeezes -- directing a powerful stream of the corrosive gel across the bathroom. The stream of gel travels in a ballistic trajectory and splatters harmlessly into the bathtub! I guess either the Hand has inherently shitty aim, or that big fucking red nose interfered with its aim somehow.
Those goddamn straight Charmin® Shitting Bears make the next move...they go for that Lysol® toliet bowl cleaner, chase that goddamn queer Hamburger Helper Hand down -- cornering it behind a clothes hamper, and squeeze the urine out of the bottle! The corrosive gel quickly covers the hand and soon dissolves it, leaving only a red-streaked light grey puddle of goo behind.
Those goddamn straight Charmin® Shitting Bears clean the goop up with Charmin® with Butt Pillows, and flush that fucking nasty, sticky pile of TP down the toilet, mysteriously shrink down to 6" creatures, crawl back into the little cabinet under the lavatory, and quietly pull the door shut behind them.
THE WINNER ROUND SIXTY TWO: THOSE GODDAMN STRAIGHT CHARMIN® SHITTING BEARS!!!
In the event that you're wondering why that goddamn queer Hamburger Helper Hand is in so many "battles" as of late, it's because the webmaster of Preserve the 80s (a large weblog) commented about one of my "battles" that the creepy sodding stupid Hand gave him nightmares as a child and that he was glad that somebody had the balls to kill it in that particular phoney-bologna fake "battle" that I'd posted there.
ROUND SIXTY THREE: THAT GODDAMN QUEER HAMBURGER HELPER HAND vs. THOSE GODDAMN QUEER RICE CRISPIES® ELVES
This battle shall take place in the kitchen & adjoining dining room of a typical middle-class household. The kitchen is equipped with what you'd expect to find in a kitchen (a refrigerator, a stove, a microwave oven, assorted small kitchen electrics, a roll of Viva brand paper towels, and a Dispoz-All food waste disposer in the right hand bowl of the double-bowl sink). The kitchen has a moderate infestation of piss ants, silverfish, cockroaches, mice, and rats because the asshats who live here are too damn cheap to call an exterminator. The dining room consists of six unupholstered chairs around an oval wooden dining table; an electric candleabra with eighteen miniature screw-base incandescent light bulbs (five of those little fuckers are blown out) in it is hung from the ceiling directly above the table.
That goddamn queer Hamburger Helper talking Hand rushes to offense here first because it's dirty ass is already on the counter and those goddamn queer Rice Crispies® elves are still in the cupboard trying to break out of the cereal box.
The Hand fishes a big slotted spoon out of the utinsel drawer, positions himself over the cabinet where the cereal is, and waits...and waits...and waits some more...soon, those goddamn queer Rice Crispies® elves skitter out of the cabinet and start crawling up the wall...TWAK!!! The Hand got one with the slotted spoon! The elf careens to the floor, and scampers into the cabinet under the sink to hide. The other two elves scatter; and all three of them eventually get together and hide behind a coffee can that some bungsnoipe left on the counter.
The elves then come out of hiding and chant in unison, "SNAP! CRACKLE!! POP!!! RICE CRISPIES® INTO YOUR MORNING!!!" as though it would adversely affect the Hand, but it is generally unphased and does not need to fashion some aural tampons and then screw them in (it's a hand for Pete sakes, and hands so not have ears!!!)
Not to be done by those stupid sodding three little asshaberdashers, that goddamn queer talking Hand gets a box of Hamburger Helper out of the cupboard above the stove, preheats the oven to 425°F (218.3°C), and starts mixing that shit up.
Those fucking queer Rice Crispies® elves catch a glimpse of the Hamburger Helper box, and are horrified by what they see: the Hand took a magic marker, crossed out the word, "Hamburger", and wrote the word, "ELF" neatly and in bold lettering above it!!!
So those goddamn queer Rice Crispies® regroup to think up something, and think quickly!!!
They skitter to the cabinet under the sink to look for a sticky rat trap or something...they spot a bunch of mousetraps, so they cock those fuckers and start hucking them at the Hand. ***SNAP***, ***SNAP***, ***SNAP*** they go as they whiz above the counter but miss that faggoty hand and impact on the wall around & above the toaster...but not to worry, because they have a LOT more! ***SNAP***, ***SNAP***, ***SNAP***, ***SNAP***...GOT HIM!!!
The Hand wriggles and writhes, while those goddamn queer Rice Crispies® elves flip open the oven door. All three of them struggle to get that wriggling, squirming Hand into the oven, they slam the door shut, and they let it cook for a couple of hours. Then they dump the bowl of Elf Helper...er...uh...I mean HAMBURGER Helper on the burning Hand, turn the oven temperature up to 575°F (301.6°C), and let it burn baby burn!!!
THE WINNER ROUND SIXTY THREE: THOSE GODDAMN QUEER RICE CRISPIES® ELVES!!!
ROUND SIXTY FOUR: THAT GODDAMN QUEER HAMBURGER HELPER HAND vs. RON POPIEL FROM THE 'SHOWTIME' INFOMERCIAL
This battle shall take place on the set of the Showtime Rotisserie infomercial. The set is equipped with what you'd expect to see on the set of a TV infomercial: boom microphones on long poles, large video cameras on wheeled dollies, portable carpeted walls on casters, thousands of watts of hot light bulbs, and hundreds of folding chairs. The set is also equipped with a number of Showtime Rotisseries, some spare lamps for the Showtime, several cans of Spray-On-Hair, and several pay telephones in various states of repair. Also present for reasons yet unknown are several Massengill brand post-menstrual disposable douches, several packages of Vivarin brand caffeine teepz, a bottle of Anacin, and a bottle of Toliet Duck brand bowl cleaner.
The studio is also outfitted with a restroom equipped with a rather standard wall-mounted porcelain uranator with a Sloan spud valve, a rather standard tankless toliet with turbo flush mechanism & a Church brand seat/lid assembly, a large Scott TP dispenser with single-ply toliet tissue in it, and a rather seriously dented small metal wastepaperbasket (the dent looks like some dillweed kicked it as though kicking a 60-yard field goal).
The contestants do not necessarily have to ***USE*** everything here, but they are at their disposal if needed -- or if desired.
It's SHOWTIME!!! Ron gets a significant head start here because he's on his home turf; that goddamn faggoty-ass stupid sodding talking Hamburger Helper Hand doesn't have a fucking clue as to what's going on here.
Ron grabs a can of his spray-on hair, and sprays the smelly black liquid toward the Hand, but he misses. The only "damage" done here is that there's a big spot of this sticky, smelly black shit on the floor where Ron
discharged the can.
The Hand goes on the rag...er...I mean...ON THE ATTACK now. He comes across those Massengill brand post-menstrual disposable douches, uncaps one, and lies in wait for Ron. Ron soon appears, and the Hand squeezes the urine out of the douche bottle, causing a stream of douche to arc across the room...SPLUT!!! Got Ron right in the cocksucker (Ron's a fag in this battle!), causing him to expel the toxic pussy cleaner with an audible gagging noise.
This pisses Ron off, so he runs to the bathroom, quickly unrolls a bunch of bungwipe, and rushes over to Hand and tries to smother that pussywhipped piece of shit. Nothing of any significance happens (of course nothing happens Ron, you stupid mofo!!! It's a hand for God sakes, and hands don't have respiratory tracts!!!)
Ron gets the bright idea to use his Showtime Rotisserie the way it was meant...he grabs the Hand, skewers
it, throws it in one of his Showtimes, slams the glass door, and simply "sets it and forgets it".
The Hand fairly quickly becomes fish food (ashes) and that's that.
THE WINNER ROUND SIXTY FOUR: RON POPIEL!!!
ROUND SIXTY FIVE: THAT GODDAMN QUEER HAMBURGER HELPER HAND vs. THAT HYPED-UP SWEATING SPEED FREAK & BULEMIC (AND BULLDYKE) SUSAN POWDER FROM THE 'GIVE ME FIVE' INFOMERCIAL
This battle shall take place on the set of the Give Me Five infomercial.
The set is equipped with what you'd expect to see on the set of a TV infomercial: boom microphones on long poles, large video cameras on wheeled dollies, portable carpeted walls on casters, thousands of watts of hot light bulbs, and hundreds of folding chairs. The set is also equipped with various cassette tapes and "Give Me Five" books.
Also present are a bunch of these: 
from Susan Powder's infomercial. Looks like a bunch of exclamation marks (or "exclamation points" as some people call those things) missing some dots...that "thing" is like a rotten potato: you know it's rotten and is gonna reek, but you sniff and snuffle at the goddamn thing for awhile anyway before finally shitcanning it.
Additionally, the studio has a restroom containing a peach-colored Kohler Cimmaron toliet (clogged with a mountain of TP and with a sizeable crack in the cistern {toliet tank} lid), a rather standard wall-mounted porcelain uranator, a large Cormatic TP dispenser with single-ply toliet tissue in it, a dirtied green roller towel in a dented and obviously vandalised case, a very foul smelling string mop in a dirty mop bucket (the water in the bucket is pretty much as disgusting as the mop itself!), and a small metal wastepaperbasket.
The contestants do not necessarily have to ***USE*** everything here, but they are at their disposal if needed -- or if desired.
Susan gets out of the gates first, not just because she's a hyped up sweating speed freak who prances around the stage stooped over likle she's going to ralf up her birthday cake and six packs of jumbo wieners into a toliet, but also because she's on home soil; that goddamn faggoty-ass stupid sodding talking Hamburger Helper Hand doesn't have a fucking clue as to what's going on here.
Susan gets a large ghetto blaster, pops one of her cassette tapes in it, cranks the volume to 11, and carries the sodding thing to where that goddamn faggoty-ass stupid talking Hamburger Helper Hand is hiding (HIDING? ALREADY?!?) -- hoping that her speech on` that tape will cause the Hand to become swollen & distended, and soon explode and die. But nothing happens -- the Hand doesn't appear to even hear it, let alone be phased by it. Of course the Hand doesn't hear it, you stupid sodding bulemic bulldyke! It's a hand for God sakes, and hands do not have ears!!!
The Hand is really pissed now (not because of the ghetto blaster, but because Susan Powder's pussy really reeks!!!), and he skitters to the bathroom hoping to find some Massengill brand post-menstrual disposable douches (or ***ANY*** brand of douche for that matter!) to squirt up Susan's kitty (not cat!) to kill the smell. Finding none, he plugs his nose (which is so big & red it looks as though our four-fingered friend has a $770-a-day coke habit and is also an alcoholic) with a clothespin that he just happened to find, and goes for that exceptionally foul & soured string mop. He lies in wait for Susan; and doesn't have to wait long! Susan shows up and runs to the shitbowl to ralf up the three boxes of Captain Crunch cereal that she recently hogged down. While she's tossing her cookies in the john, Hand smacks the douche with the smelly mop over and over...Susan, oblivious to the fucking yucky stinky mop, goes headfirst into the toliet bowl, aspirates (inhales) the huge pile of puke in it, and rather quickly becomes worm food!!!
And the winne...O WAIT!!! In one her death throes, Susan kicks that goddamn faggoty-ass stupid sodding talking Hamburger Helper Hand into the mop bucket, where it drowns in that fucking yucky filthy disgusting mop water!!!
THE WINNER ROUND SIXTY FIVE: MUTUAL ANNIHILATION!!!
For more about these pussywhipped pieces of shit motherfucking things called "ads", please visit Commercials I Hate.